Moving Sydney into a less awkward position so that the front door could be closed properly, Irina must have noticed the new symbol etched into Sydney's shoulder, identical to the one she'd already discovered on him--a small, simple black circle, within it written one word: "verlassenen." Forsaken.
That would explain the same questioning glance she tossed in his direction more than once when he returned from taking care of Martin's body. He did not bother to answer questions that had not yet been asked, and she did not bother to articulate her suspicions. After all, he was here; how could she doubt him now?
When all had been arranged, she sent him to a small airport 20 miles away, with a heavily sleeping Sydney in tow.
He hesitated before speaking after receiving the order, but pushed ahead: "Was she not meant to be the--"
Irina cut him off with a curt nod and a rueful smile. "Everyone makes mistakes. Believing that was mine."
He wondered what she wasn't saying; it could not have been a mistake that had led her to abandon everything, wipe her slate clean, hide away here with new ambitions that were a secret even from him but clearly also relatively small-time. Perhaps it was not Sydney's destiny about which she had been mistaken, merely her capacity to fulfill it.
"Tell her I'm sorry," Irina said, and he did not reply: the girl's been through so much already, must I lie to her as well? He wondered whose benefit the apology was intended for; was it meant to make him perceive her as more caring than she was, or was it meant as one last attempt to convince Sydney she had not meant to do what she'd done? Probably the latter; it seemed unlikely she would be that concerned about what he thought about her or the situation or anything else, a truth he'd always accepted.
But the nagging suspicion in her open eyes during and after her unexpected goodbye kiss provided a moment of secret pleasure that recurred each time he replayed the scene in his mind during the flight.
Before he left, she slipped into his hand one more slip of paper, and whispered something else into his ear, then sent him on his way.
The pilot of the private airplane she'd arranged was another of her employees. Sark carried Sydney from the car to the plane, armed with a few additional doses of the tranquilizer that had so efficiently knocked her off her feet. A car was waiting for them when the plane arrived at its destination. Getting her from the car to the house was far more difficult; luckily, it was around 4am, so he was able to quickly construct a story about a girlfriend who'd had too much to drink, in case anyone asked. But the sidewalks were empty, the street silent.
He found her house key in the bag she'd abandoned at the gate of the house in Spain.
He deposited the body in her bed and backed toward the door. For a brief instant, he entertained the following delusion: he could rest beside her, as he'd done before, and they could pretend Spain never happened. For all Sydney would remember, maybe it hadn't. Maybe it had only been a vivid, fuzzy dream brought on during the worst hangover of her life. He could stay here, with her, pretending he really was different now, that the old way of life did not fulfill him anymore.
What good would it do? She would never be able to wash Vaughn's face from her memory, no matter how many false personas she assumed to detach from her sorrow. He would never be Vaughn; she would never be more than she was, the same limited capacity that had led Irina to give up on her one last time would undoubtedly disappoint him as well. Yes, that prospect made it easier to walk away.
But leaving her was still more difficult than he'd anticipated, and so he stood there, watching, waiting, daring her to awaken suddenly.
Some time later, as he passed through the living room on his way out of the house, he noticed a familiar figure stretched out on the couch. He drew his gun for protection against sudden moves and woke Jack Bristow, who appeared to be in better health now than he had been when they last met, to deliver the news.
"Sydney's back," Sark informed him. "She's asleep. She's fine."
Bristow took a moment to process the new situation.
"I'm leaving now. Don't follow me, or, I swear to you, I'll--"
"I won't follow you."
Sark nodded, and backed off.
When he reached the door, Jack spoke again. "She'll find you. And when she finds you, she'll kill you." A pause. "Both of you."
It was a wild stab at any vein he might still be able to hit. Sark's instinct was to betray nothing, to keep him guessing forever. But time had regrettably softened him; he considered giving Bristow a sign that she was still alive. But perhaps it would be best for everyone if Bristow believed his former wife had perished in a horrible accident months ago, that she had not known what she was doing. If he learned the truth, so it would be, but this belief might provide him with enough closure to take himself and Sydney away from the wreckage of their former life, and never seek again to find what could only bring them harm.
He stared at Bristow evenly, then slowly shook his head. "I assure you," he said smoothly, "it's only me now."
It probably wasn't the last lie he would ever tell.
As he walked quickly toward the car, he kept his head down. Drops of rain dotted the asphalt with irregular spots, although he could not detect the water falling around him.
And she had said: this is where I'll be, but if you don't come back, I'll understand.
But the choice had never been his to make.
* * *
the end
Note: The new summary is from Paula Cole's "Road to Dead."
Thanks for reading. :)
That would explain the same questioning glance she tossed in his direction more than once when he returned from taking care of Martin's body. He did not bother to answer questions that had not yet been asked, and she did not bother to articulate her suspicions. After all, he was here; how could she doubt him now?
When all had been arranged, she sent him to a small airport 20 miles away, with a heavily sleeping Sydney in tow.
He hesitated before speaking after receiving the order, but pushed ahead: "Was she not meant to be the--"
Irina cut him off with a curt nod and a rueful smile. "Everyone makes mistakes. Believing that was mine."
He wondered what she wasn't saying; it could not have been a mistake that had led her to abandon everything, wipe her slate clean, hide away here with new ambitions that were a secret even from him but clearly also relatively small-time. Perhaps it was not Sydney's destiny about which she had been mistaken, merely her capacity to fulfill it.
"Tell her I'm sorry," Irina said, and he did not reply: the girl's been through so much already, must I lie to her as well? He wondered whose benefit the apology was intended for; was it meant to make him perceive her as more caring than she was, or was it meant as one last attempt to convince Sydney she had not meant to do what she'd done? Probably the latter; it seemed unlikely she would be that concerned about what he thought about her or the situation or anything else, a truth he'd always accepted.
But the nagging suspicion in her open eyes during and after her unexpected goodbye kiss provided a moment of secret pleasure that recurred each time he replayed the scene in his mind during the flight.
Before he left, she slipped into his hand one more slip of paper, and whispered something else into his ear, then sent him on his way.
The pilot of the private airplane she'd arranged was another of her employees. Sark carried Sydney from the car to the plane, armed with a few additional doses of the tranquilizer that had so efficiently knocked her off her feet. A car was waiting for them when the plane arrived at its destination. Getting her from the car to the house was far more difficult; luckily, it was around 4am, so he was able to quickly construct a story about a girlfriend who'd had too much to drink, in case anyone asked. But the sidewalks were empty, the street silent.
He found her house key in the bag she'd abandoned at the gate of the house in Spain.
He deposited the body in her bed and backed toward the door. For a brief instant, he entertained the following delusion: he could rest beside her, as he'd done before, and they could pretend Spain never happened. For all Sydney would remember, maybe it hadn't. Maybe it had only been a vivid, fuzzy dream brought on during the worst hangover of her life. He could stay here, with her, pretending he really was different now, that the old way of life did not fulfill him anymore.
What good would it do? She would never be able to wash Vaughn's face from her memory, no matter how many false personas she assumed to detach from her sorrow. He would never be Vaughn; she would never be more than she was, the same limited capacity that had led Irina to give up on her one last time would undoubtedly disappoint him as well. Yes, that prospect made it easier to walk away.
But leaving her was still more difficult than he'd anticipated, and so he stood there, watching, waiting, daring her to awaken suddenly.
Some time later, as he passed through the living room on his way out of the house, he noticed a familiar figure stretched out on the couch. He drew his gun for protection against sudden moves and woke Jack Bristow, who appeared to be in better health now than he had been when they last met, to deliver the news.
"Sydney's back," Sark informed him. "She's asleep. She's fine."
Bristow took a moment to process the new situation.
"I'm leaving now. Don't follow me, or, I swear to you, I'll--"
"I won't follow you."
Sark nodded, and backed off.
When he reached the door, Jack spoke again. "She'll find you. And when she finds you, she'll kill you." A pause. "Both of you."
It was a wild stab at any vein he might still be able to hit. Sark's instinct was to betray nothing, to keep him guessing forever. But time had regrettably softened him; he considered giving Bristow a sign that she was still alive. But perhaps it would be best for everyone if Bristow believed his former wife had perished in a horrible accident months ago, that she had not known what she was doing. If he learned the truth, so it would be, but this belief might provide him with enough closure to take himself and Sydney away from the wreckage of their former life, and never seek again to find what could only bring them harm.
He stared at Bristow evenly, then slowly shook his head. "I assure you," he said smoothly, "it's only me now."
It probably wasn't the last lie he would ever tell.
As he walked quickly toward the car, he kept his head down. Drops of rain dotted the asphalt with irregular spots, although he could not detect the water falling around him.
And she had said: this is where I'll be, but if you don't come back, I'll understand.
But the choice had never been his to make.
* * *
the end
Note: The new summary is from Paula Cole's "Road to Dead."
Thanks for reading. :)